Trop Aimer
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: A few years premovie, Arthur gets some bad news. My latest study of the Arthur/Mal friendship.


Disclaimer: I do not own Inception, or its characters.

Note on the inception (har har) of this fic: in another Arthur/Mal friendship fic of mine, _But Lullabies Go On and On_, there was a single flashback line about Mal comforting Arthur on the night that his brother died. Though I knew it was essentially gratuitous angst, I also knew from the moment that I wrote that line that I would someday need to expand it into its own vignette. Essentially it became an unexpectedly long study of their relationship. I'm not sure everyone will agree with my assessment, but in the end this is my take on it. Feedback is loved. Enjoy!

Also, can you tell how much I wish I spoke French? It is such a beautiful language! I can only handle two languages, though, and given where I live there was really no other option for my second besides Spanish. Which is fun as well. But it ain't French. Thanks to the internet (specific sites sadly deleted from my history- oops!) for all its help.

_Trop Aimer_

The shower was so cold that it brought Arthur sharply back to the present, and for a moment that was all he knew: the water was pounding against his flushed skin, almost numbing it, and he could feel his hair gel running down his temples and cheeks to his neck. His ears were filled with the rush of the water striking his head and back, and dripping off his body to hit the floor below; the lighting seemed unusually harsh, and his bright white shower tiles were gleaming up at him, simple and clean. There was the smell of sweat disappearing down the drain, along with the faint scent of soap left from previous showers. For a moment, Arthur's surroundings consumed him entirely. And then he remembered.

At work. The phone call. Back to work. The drive home. Mal pushing him into the shower…

_Mal_.

Mal rushing into the office, frantic for the first time since he'd met her. Mal going red in the face as she recounted her argument with Dom, appalled that he'd left Arthur alone at the lab after such news had arrived. Mal practically leading him up the stairs to his own apartment, fussing over him even more than she normally did. The whole time, of course, he had insisted that he had no need for help, that he was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

But something occurred to Arthur, then, and he slipped open the shower curtain to look at the rest of the bathroom. And there they were. The pajamas on the sink had definitely not been put there by him. If it had been up to him, he'd have forgotten, and been forced to walk to his bureau in only a towel, which was something he absolutely hated doing.

All right, so maybe it wasn't completely unnecessary for Mal to be there, assisting him. But Arthur thought that, just for this one time, he could be excused.

The death of a brother was going to shake up anyone, after all.

By the time he was rinsing the shampoo from his hair, Arthur no longer felt the temperature of the water. In fact, the room was almost too hot for him by comparison when he stepped out, and for a moment he just stood there, wanting desperately to climb back in and stand under the water for another hour or two. Instead, of course, he toweled off, and dressed in the clothes that Mal had left for him.

He had to smile, despite himself, when he looked at her selections: pinstriped pajama bottoms and a white undershirt. It had been Mal, years ago, who had encouraged him to dress as professionally as he did now. But when it came to lounge clothes, the student had surpassed the teacher. Mal simply didn't understand the concept of matching them: didn't understand that the pair of black and grey striped cotton bottoms went with the black and grey striped cotton top. It was no matter, though- at least not tonight, anyway. Tonight everything was out of order. Fitting that his clothes should be as well.

He made what felt like a daring decision, and wiped the steam away from the mirror to look at himself. Behind the still-blurred surface, his reflection stared back at him, and Arthur supposed it didn't look too terrible, all things considered. He looked older than twenty-five, but that wasn't new. He'd looked older than his age even longer than he'd felt it.

He combed his wet hair back from his face; for a moment, it looked as neat as it usually did, but he knew that soon it would dry to a chaotic frenzy of waves. He hated to sleep with gel in his hair, but he also hated for anyone to see him unkempt.

Arthur turned his head to stare down at his electric hair trimmer, and for a moment all that he could do was stare at it. All their lives, he'd had relatively long hair and Jonathan had had a buzz cut; it was one very simple way of telling them apart. Now, he supposed, there was no real claim on the buzz cut anymore. Maybe he should just shear it all off and be done with it, be done with the biweekly trimmings and the sticky products and constantly worrying that it would muss itself up and get in his way…

His hand twitched as though it wanted him to pick up the trimmer, wanted him to flick to the setting that would leave a quarter of an inch of hair on his head. Arthur clenched his hand into a fist, and kept it resolutely at his side. The last thing that he needed to happen was for anyone to think that he was going to be unfit to work. And somehow entering a bathroom with a full head of hair and exiting nearly bald seemed to speak of uncharacteristic spontaneity. Of an instability that certainly wasn't there, and which he certainly didn't want to give the illusion of. They wouldn't understand the motivation. So Arthur smoothed his hair back from his forehead one last time, and turned away. He retrieved his die from the pocket of his trousers, slipped it into the pocket of his pajamas, and opened the bathroom door.

The smell of coffee hit him like a punch to the gut as he stepped into the main area of his apartment. Overpowered by a sudden wave of nausea, he braced himself against the wall on one arm. It was nearly bad enough that he retreated straight back to the bathroom, but he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to order himself back under control. After a few steady breathes, he acclimated to the bitterness in the air, and his stomach slowly calmed itself.

He was making his way to the couch when Mal entered from the kitchen side. She had a mug in both hands, but that was not the remarkable part of her appearance. Instead Arthur couldn't distract himself from the fact that she was wearing only a long dressing gown over a short nightgown, her hair was undone, and her makeup was absent. Somehow he had not noticed this when she'd come to collect him at the office, and now he tried not to stare. In the past few years, Mal had been the lively but gentle older sister that he had always wanted in light of his barely present mother. But he could not deny that he had always considered her ravishingly beautiful as well. Now the quiet, unrequited pleasure that he found in her long legs and dashing smile burned almost painfully in his chest. Everything was painful tonight. Arthur sank to the couch under the weight of it all.

Mal joined him, pressing a mug into his hands. Sipping at hers, she crossed her legs and looked at him expectantly.

Suddenly everything was too strange for Arthur. His stomach churned; Mal touched his arm, her hand hot from the coffee; his clothes felt too tight; and maybe everything had been a dream since he'd answered the phone. Maybe everything had been a dream since ten seconds before. Arthur set his mug down on the coffee table. Almost instinctively, he pulled the die from his pocket and twirled it between his fingers before casting it. His lungs froze up as he prayed.

The weight felt right; the tiny, smooth deformations of the edges were as familiar to him as the fingers that felt them. The die landed with a four face up, and Arthur sighed. There was a sense of relief as the world settled back into place, but also a profound emptiness as he realized, for what felt like the hundredth time that night, that Jonathan really was gone. _This is not a drill_, some abstract and unbidden part of his mind whispered.

Then he felt Mal's hand again, this time covering his as he reached to retrieve the die. "Stop that, Arthur," she said quietly, and the patience in her voice made him feel that he'd been trying this all night, though he couldn't remember doing so. Obediently, he slipped the totem back into his pocket, swallowing against the sudden thickness in his throat.

"Drink your coffee," Mal told him, handing him the mug for a second time. Arthur took it, then stared down to study it. The mug was a hideous yellow- he wasn't even sure why he owned it- and in it the coffee became a terribly unappetizing shade of brown. He opened his mouth to politely decline. Instead he heard his voice bluntly stating, "I'll throw up." He blinked, surprised at his own rudeness, and surprised that he'd admitted to feeling ill as well. But Mal took it all in her stride.

"I'll get you some water, then," she told him, rising from her seat and going to the kitchen. When she came back, she took the mug from Arthur and replaced it with a cold, clear glass. "Do drink this, at least," she insisted. "You're still running a fever, Arthur."

For a split second, her words made no sense to him, then there was a tremendous feeling of a weight evaporating from his shoulders. Fever- he had a _fever_. No wonder the world felt sideways. He wasn't losing his mind. Arthur sighed with relief.

"I'm gonna get some Advil," he announced, pushing himself up to stand. Mal pushed him back down.

"You already did," she said gently.

Arthur blinked, unable to remember this, but then relaxed back onto the sofa again, deciding that it was all right. He wasn't to blame for the strange gaps in his memory; he was getting sick. Never before had he been so pleased at that prospect. In under a minute, he'd finished his water, put down the glass, and turned to curl up sideways on the couch. Mal slid closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders; Arthur sighed again, with contentment and just a hint of envy. It was so easy for her: intimacy, physical contact. It came so naturally. But there were a very limited number of people that Arthur felt comfortable letting enter his personal bubble; Mal was part of an exclusive club. Even more exclusive after today.

For a while, they just sat there; Arthur had let his head come to rest on Mal's outstretched arm, and she was sitting, contented and quiet, her free hand splayed out on her stomach. The silence was finally broken by a pleased "oh!" as Mal shifted slightly in position.

"What?"

"That was a big kick," she said, smiling, rubbing her slightly rounded stomach.

Again there was a feverish moment of uncertainty. Then Arthur felt incredibly stupid. Pregnant- of course Mal was pregnant. Arthur had been among the first to know when they'd gone public with it about a month ago. Funny- and somewhat disturbing- how such things could slip one's mind.

Arthur lifted his head from Mal's arm, pulling the rest of his body away as well. Terribly selfish, unforgivably selfish of him, really, to have put her in this position! Losing sleep to stay up with him, to bring him home and play his nursemaid, when she was _pregnant_ and he was _sick_. It was unthinkable, really.

"You should go home, Mal," Arthur said firmly. "You need your rest."

Mal looked up at him, her face amused and quizzical. "I'm pregnant, Arthur. I am not sick."

"But I am," he reminded her. "I don't want you catching anything from me when you've got a baby in there. And you could bring it back home to Phillipa."

She tilted her head as she studied him, and for a moment there was an awful sadness painting her features. Then she shook her head determinedly. "But you must let me stay. I am still so mad at Dom, I will hit him if you make me go home."

"I'll show you the guest room, then," Arthur replied, though of course Mal knew where it was. She had, after all, helped him design it, and was responsible for its calm autumnal theme.

"You're going to bed?"

"I'm very tired."

"Arthur," Mal said, very, very softly. Her face had gone blank. "When will you stop this silly game?"

Arthur blinked. "What game?"

"Playing pretend. I think you're a bit old for it, no?"

"I don't know what you mean, Mal."

She reached down the sofa and took his hand, drawing him closer to her again, which he unconsciously resisted. Her voice was low and steady, almost conspiratorial. "You are not just tired and you are not just sick. Today your twin brother died, and I want to know when you are going to stop your… your _bougeotte_," she exclaimed, slipping with frustration back into French, "and sit still for a moment and let me see that you even know what's going on!"

"Of course I do," Arthur answered curtly, surprised at her words. "And I don't really need you reminding me, Mal." He felt his body begin to stand without him really telling it to. He went to his closet, pulled out running sneakers and a ratty grey hoodie.

"Where are you going?" Mal asked, also standing. Her voice was much softer now, but Arthur didn't care. Anger was boiling in his stomach, feeling like a living swarm. He knew that it was directed at the world at large, not just Mal, but he was dangerously close to taking it out on her. And since it was clear that she herself simply would not get the hell out, leaving seemed the only feasible option.

"For a walk," he snapped, zipping the hoodie up to his chin as he stalked to the door. Very deliberately, he prevented it from slamming behind him. Then he fled, down eight flights of stairs, past the doorman and out onto the city streets, into the cold, heavy air.

Arthur walked slowly, still feverishly off balance. Keeping his mouth shut and breathing through his nose forced him to take in air steadily, which normally cleared his head in turn. Tonight, though, his thoughts were still spinning. His knees felt weak, and he fought the urge to rest for a moment on one of the stoops he was passing. The son of an old money lawyer and his glamorous wife, Arthur had always been highly conscious of appearances. Even before the more sophisticated wardrobe that he'd grown to favor, he'd worn designer polos and always kept his trousers pressed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn this awful hoodie; but drowning inside of it now, he was more conscious than ever of how he looked: skinny, dizzy, messy-haired, wandering the streets in sneakers and mismatched clothes.

His fingers twitched like they wanted to grab his totem, but instead they slipped inside the opposite sleeve and brushed the skin beneath. Needle marks on his wrist and inner elbow: they were the legacy of the PASIV, but very few people were privy to that secret. He could never wear short sleeves in public anymore.

Huddled up in his sweatshirt, both arms wrapped around himself now, Arthur had to laugh at the irony. Alone in the city, looking a mess, and covered in the scars of countless needles: he felt closer to Jonathan than he ever had before. Closer to understanding why he ran, why he ended up the way he did.

Closer to ending up there himself.

And then his knees really did buckle. Arthur found himself braced against an anonymous building, his fingers scraping brick, thanking the universe at large that he hadn't actually fallen. His feet felt like lead inside the sneakers that were supposed to make them feel lighter, and all at once he wasn't angry anymore. All he wanted to do was make it home. He pushed himself off the wall.

It took twice as long to get back to his apartment building as it had to walk away from it, but soon Arthur was stepping into the lobby, blinking back tears in the comparatively bright lighting. Dimly he recognized the overnight doorman, newly on duty, giving him a thorough study before deciding that he knew him. Then Mal was next to him, leading him to the elevators. He should have realized that she'd be waiting in the lobby.

They rode up in silence, and it was all Arthur could do not to slump against the wall as the elevator slowly rose to his floor. Mal had locked his apartment, and opened it again with the key that she still had in her hand. Arthur kicked his shoes off in the doorway, then padded noiselessly to the couch and sank down, still enveloped in the soft gray material of his hoodie. He curled in on himself, substituting it for a blanket. He was going to sleep forever.

"No, no," he heard Mal's voice insisting, and then her hands were on him, making him rise. "You need a real bed. Up you are. And take this off," she added, tugging at his oversized sleeve. "Did I not tell you you have a temperature?"

"I'm cold," Arthur argued logically, although he noticed now that this was no longer the case. Now that he had stepped inside, just like when he had exited the shower, room temperature felt hot by comparison. The difference was making his nose run. So he unzipped the sweatshirt and relinquished it to Mal, who tossed it down on the couch then looked at Arthur as though daring him to argue. Arthur offered up a tired smile that felt small even to him, and yet required a terrible amount of energy to achieve.

"I think I really am going to bed now, Mal. Goodnight. And thank you." When she made to follow him to the bedroom, he held out a hand. "I really can get there myself," he insisted, though not ungently.

"Fine. I will call Dom." Mal shook her head, and the soft waves of her hair followed. Then she smiled. "I will tell him that I am still angry, and will be spending the night at the apartment of a terribly handsome young colleague."

"Don't make him feel bad," Arthur told her. "I mean it."

"You can mean it all you want, Arthur, but you are too soft sometimes," Mal chided gently. Arthur frowned at such a description of himself, but if Mal noticed, she didn't react. "I know, he is your best friend as much as you are his. But you cannot always let him off the hook."

"Goodnight, Mal," Arthur said again, turning away from her. Rude? Probably. But he simply wasn't up for a discussion of his relationship with Dom Cobb; he wasn't up for a discussion of anything more emotionally charged than the weather. And Mal, bless her, Mal let him go: let him walk quietly into his bedroom, close the door, and sink down onto the comforter.

Too tired to slide under the blankets, he merely curled up on his side. The only light in the room was the faint glow of the city sneaking in through the window. It felt unbelievably good to be in the dark, to be able to rest his eyes. He took his totem from his pocket and reached over just enough to place it safely on his nightstand. Then he let his arm fall down to the bed again, running his fingers over the soft, cool fabric of the comforter as he drew his arm back to his chest. He traced the wavy lines that formed the subtle pockets of filling. And Arthur closed his eyes.

He didn't know if he slept; he might have, because there seemed to be a stretch of time when he thought nothing, felt nothing. He'd have to open his eyes to look at the clock, though, and somehow he couldn't bring himself to. So perhaps time passed and perhaps it didn't. But gradually, memory began to play at the edges of his blank consciousness, and the sick sadness that he'd grown accustomed to returned bit by bit. He rolled over, flat on his back, and stared up into the blackness towards his ceiling.

So, Jonathan had overdosed. It wasn't unexpected. It had been years since he'd heard from his brother, and even longer since his calls had been about anything other than borrowing money. Arthur supposed that it did say something about their father that he'd still had people keeping track of Jonathan, even though there was nothing more to really be done for him. He'd dodged every intervention and escaped every rehab, back on the streets looking for the excitement, the grit, the _color_ to life that had never been a part of their childhood.

"Did you find it, Jon?" Arthur murmured to the room, his voice raw. "Was it good?"

The overdose had happened sometime in the early hours of the morning, and it had only taken half a day for word to filter back to their parents. His father had tails on Jonathan. They couldn't do much but relay bad news, though.

He knew that Mal was waiting for more from him, but he was going to have to disappoint her. He hadn't felt like a twin for years. Losing Jonathan was something that had happened gradually, and today was simply the inevitable culmination of the process. It came as logically as thunder after lighting. And yes, it hurt, but the pain of loss was not unbearable. Arthur had developed a high tolerance for it.

Then why on earth were there tears in his eyes? Arthur tried to force them back, but he had waited too long, and blinking only made them fall. He wiped them away instead, as then ran down his temples, and rolled back onto his side. He closed his eyes again, willing sleep to take him, but in this new position it was somehow hard to breathe. He shifted again, on his stomach this time with one leg pulled up, but still his air supply felt choked.

He rolled one more time, onto his other side, one hand pressed to his chest now. The fabric of his shirt had snagged against the fabric of the comforter, and the collar was tight against his neck. He pulled it out, gasping slightly, hearing the threads snap as he stretched it further and further away from his skin. Nearly shaking with frustration, Arthur flipped onto his back, then struggled to sit up against the headboard. The waistband of his pants was pulling uncomfortably, and the pillows lurched strangely beneath him. He was going to be sick- he really thought it would happen, but everything in his body seemed frozen and unable to react, including his stomach. Both hands went to his chest now, trying to force air into his lungs. His lips were cold, tingling, and his mouth was going dry. Air entered his body and left it, but it seemed to him that there was no oxygen included. His eyes were fuzzing over, literally going blind with terror.

Arthur didn't understand what it meant when the door to his bedroom burst open; his blurry eyes could make out nothing but a dark figure against a rectangle of blinding light. But he knew Mal- knew the feel, the simple scent of her- as she clambered up onto the bed beside him, kneeling there with both hands on his shoulders, fear trembling in her voice.

"Breathe slowly, _mon petit_," she urged, shaking his shoulders gently. "You have to _slow down_."

_But I'm not breathing at all_, Arthur tried to tell her, but the words never came. All he could hear was a terrible wheezing, like a drowning man trying to scream.

"Please trust me," Mal begged. "Breathe with me. In now"- she inhaled- "out now." She exhaled. "In now." Deep breath. "Out now."

Arthur felt her breath brush against the back of his neck, and realized for the first time that she was holding him from behind, had her chest pressed up against his shoulderblades. He could feel it, as she breathed- and _damn _it, she made it seem so easy.

Well, never let it be said that Arthur was a poor student. He could physically feel her lungs expanding and releasing, and Arthur steeled himself against the pain in his chest and began, clumsily, to mimic her. Inhale, exhale; in, out. As his lungs began to function properly, the rest of his body relaxed as well, and Arthur sank, exhausted, against Mal's chest. She wrapped both arms around him, saying nothing.

With two trembling hands, Arthur reached up to wipe his face; he was not surprised to find his cheeks drenched with tears, so wet that they were nearly slick. He wiped them with the full lengths of his palms, and still they were not completely dry.

"Arthur," Mal said quietly.

_I'm fine_, he opened his mouth to say. But different words came out.

"He's gone."

"I know."

Arthur turned around clumsily on his knees, seeking somewhere safe to hide his face; he found Mal's shoulder and pressed against it desperately. Quietly, he began to sob.

Mal's long nails on his back made him shiver, and Arthur pressed closer. How could he ever have been hot in this hellishly cold room? Mal held him tighter, as though she knew. Arthur gave the full weight of his head to her shoulder, worrying only distantly that it might be too heavy.

Soon Arthur was shaking all over, and not just from crying; he was freezing cold, and his knees resisted the amount of time spent holding him up. Mal stirred beneath him, then gently pushed him away. "Lie down, Arthur," she ordered him gently.

The covers had been pushed down from all the motion, and Arthur stuck his legs inside them before sliding down, curling once again on his side. Mal repositioned herself behind him, wrapped protectively around him, and now more than ever he could feel the pregnant size of her stomach, pressing against his back. Slowly she began to stroke his hair, and Arthur felt his sobs redouble. There seemed, for the time being, to be no other option, nothing else to do but to lie there and cry.

From his new position, he could see his clock; he stared sleepily at the blocky green digits, only half understanding their meaning. Time passed clumsily, sometimes seeming to rush ahead, sometimes seeming frozen in place. More than once, Arthur caught himself nearly asleep, all out of tears and curled up in the concave space that Mal had formed with her body. Each time he snapped back to reality, the tears began again, guilt weighing heavily on him for sleeping when Jonathan would never wake up.

At some point, Mal's arm must have grown tired of propping her torso up, because she flopped down beside him with a little sigh, and he felt her head come to rest behind his on the pillow. Her other arm, which she'd been using to rub his head, draped lazily around his waist and pulled their bodies closer. Arthur's eyes were heavy, then, his breathing quiet. He wondered what would happen if he rolled over and kissed Mal. He wondered what would happen if he refused to ever get up from this bed again.

It was a little after three when Mal raised herself slightly off the bed and leaned over. "I'm so sorry," she said quietly, speaking almost directly into his ear. "I'll be right back."

He couldn't find it in himself to acknowledge her words; instead he lay there dumbly as she slipped from the room. A minute later he heard his toilet flushing, and then Mal had returned, and was climbing back into bed beside him. Tired as he was, Arthur had to laugh. Life went on without Jonathan. Time passed. Pregnant women peed.

"What?" Mal asked, her voice light and curious.

"Look at the clock," Arthur told her quietly. "It's been twenty-four hours." He rolled over, sank on his back deeper into the bedding. Mal laid her head carefully on his chest.

"_Oh, mon petit frère_," she began, and then she was speaking too quietly and rapidly for him to translate.

"Too fast, Mal," he protested. He was almost smiling, but when she raised her head and he saw tears on her cheeks, Arthur somehow felt more wretched then he had all night.

"I said, I am so sad for you, my little brother," Mal whispered; in the dim light, their eyes locked. "I said my heart breaks to see your pain, and even moreso to know that you are ashamed of it. I said I love you and I wish that my love were worth anything right now. Except," she added, sniffing loudly, "I said it all in French, and I think it sounded much better that way."

Arthur burst out laughing. This woman, this fantastic beautiful woman, joked for him, cried for him, loved him. It felt strange and terrible and amazing, and though of course she'd been a brilliant example of friendship all night, for the first time in a long time Arthur actually allowed himself to feel it. It felt impossibly safe, and before Arthur knew it his laughter had dissolved into tears, and he was turning towards Mal, lying on the side facing her this time, and she was rubbing her hand up and down his arm. He could hear himself, sniffing, hiccupping, and he didn't care that Mal could hear him too.

Mostly, he kept his eyes closed, but when he did open them, he glanced up at her face, only inches away. Her expression was serene, though still tinged with sadness, her eyes gazing over his head and out the window. If ever anyone could seem truly lost in their own thoughts, it was Mal. When she caught him looking, she would smile, and the hand that never stopped running itself soothingly along his arm, across his fingers, through his hair, would move a little faster again, as though remembering its mission. All through the night, he never caught her dozing.

There was the faintest of pink lights tinting her face when she sat up; it was coming through the window, Arthur realized sleepily.

"The sun is rising," she said quietly. "You need to sleep, Arthur. Dom is not expecting you today. Sleep as long as you want."

"I don't want to sleep at all," he replied, and the answer sounded petulant and silly even to his own ears.

"You can't even keep your eyes open," Mal told him gently. "I will stay, if you want."

If he wanted- _oh_, he wanted. The thought of waking up with Mal beside him came dangerously close to giving meaning to this whole damn night.

But Arthur shook his head. Somehow he suspected that this would only further break his heart.

"All right," Mal said quietly. "I will be in the guest room, then. I won't leave before you wake."

"All right," Arthur agreed. Despite his protests, his eyes were closing of their own accord now. He struggled to keep them open as Mal leaned down and kissed his forehead softly.

"_C'est trop aimer quand on en meurt_," she told him quietly. "My mother always says this."

"It's loving too much when you die for it?" Arthur translated drowsily.

"I disliked it for a very long time. It's very pragmatic for French, no? She says it especially when my father is gone for months, back home when she's here. Think about this, Arthur. I don't mean to say that you should not let yourself feel it. But you love on the inside, _mon petit_. You love where no one else can see it. And it's this kind of love that kills you. There are other things in your life. Please, just be good to yourself."

"I'll try," Arthur murmured; her words felt incredibly important, but now that the suggestion of sleep had been put in his head, he was pretty damn keen on the idea.

"All right. Goodnight." And then she was gone.

Arthur let his eyes slip shut. For once, the prospect of a dreamless sleep was appealing, rather than depressing. It had been years since he'd cried, far longer since he'd cried for more than a minute or two; now, his eyes stung, his throat stung, and he was simply beyond exhausted. Staying up long enough to see the sunrise was not uncommon for Arthur, but this morning he felt as though he'd been awake for a week.

Hazy and half-asleep already, Arthur spun Mal's words around in his head. He loved the sound of French, and somehow, as unfamiliar languages tended to do, it made everything feel true.

_C'est trop aimer quand on en meurt_… it sounded like a riddle. How do you know when you love too much? When you die for it, of course.

Did Jonathan die for love- did love of ecstasy count? Did love of escape? What did Arthur love too much? He felt like he could die right then and there.

Tomorrow, maybe, he'd answer that question. Tomorrow, there were a hundred and one things to do, and plan. Technically, it was tomorrow already. But Arthur had always believed that, no matter what the clock said, tomorrow did not come until after one had slept.

His own eyes followed the course that Mal's had taken, gazing out the window, filled with the soft pink light. And finally Arthur slept.

AN: When Mal tells Arthur to stop his _bougeotte_, she is telling him to stop fidgeting. _Mon petit frère_, which you probably got on your own, means 'my little brother', and _mon petit_ is just a truncation of this.


End file.
